


Nothing Like the Sun

by AceQueenKing



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saren may not be handsome by turian standards, but Nihlus is good at seeing what he wants to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Like the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Velasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velasa/gifts).



Saren is not beautiful, not by turian standards.

He is slightly short and unusually slim-cowled, for a man. The combination would give Saren a sort of feminine air, if Saren weren't the owner of a ridiculously long fringe that should seem ridiculous on such a short man but, somehow, fits him. Nihlus carefully tugs at Saren's cowl, one that he wears at nearly all times, spills it backwards so he can see the tender spines of his lover's head. 

Saren's skin – silver-white, cold and warm all at once – seems to almost glimmer in the low lights of the Citadel night cycle. Nihlus' mandibles flutter with excitement as he gently, carefully caresses the hard tip of Saren's browplate; Saren makes a sleepy murmur, but does not wake.

Nihlus' mandibles flap into a small smile, and Nihlus continues his explorations.

Nihlus runs a hand down Saren's side, wordlessly tracing Saren's many, many scars, mapping out the story of their adventures on Saren's skin. 

He doesn't get time to explore Saren like this often; Saren is never entirely comfortable being at the mercy of someone else, even Nihlus, and so his caresses are left only for the most intimate of moments.

During sex is one; when they are together, Saren lets him run his hands across that large waist, those thick thighs; for once, Saren is too occupied to bother rolling his eyes and making a smart comment. Even then, the moment doesn't last nearly long enough. Saren may let Nihlus worship his thighs, his waist, his hips, but sooner or later he always deflects his hands and focuses instead on Nihlus' body and Nihlus' pleasure over Saren's own. 

But there are other moments, quiet moments like this, where Nihlus is free to take his time, to watch Saren's always-too-thin stomach dip and swell as he breathes, to map the growing number of lines and crevices on Saren's face. 

_(Saren is getting older, he knows; he likes the thought that Saren is getting closer to retirement.)_

Moments where Saren is vulnerable or even peaceful are rare, and Nihlus treasures each and every one, commits them to his memories. 

Saren rolls over in his sleep, oblivious to his attention.

Saren's never slept with any of his other lovers, Nihlus knows, even if Saren has never told him. Saren's never been comfortable in situations he can't control. He knows Saren well enough to know that. He's watched Saren talk his way out of countless situations, watched Saren intimidate suspects into breaking with nothing but cold, precise words, watched Saren deal death with swift and fatal grace. For Saren, control is not just a choice – it is an art form. And Saren is a master.

Nihlus is the only man, he knows, who has seen that silver throat bow in submission, who has taken Saren to his breaking point. It's a privilege he's careful not to abuse, all too aware of Saren's mercurial temperament, his ever-growing walls.

He glides his hand down that wiry chest, daringly dips one talon onto the sensitive, unplated skin of his stomach. Unlike all his other turian lovers, Saren has no clear distinction in shade between skin and plate. It's unique, utterly Saren, and Nihlus never tires of delving his fingers across Saren's body, plotting a course that takes him from the hills of Saren's chest to the valley of his stomach, then shamelessly dashing across the pleasing plains of his thighs. 

That Saren consents to sharing his bed, to allowing Nihlus to touch him– this is the closest, he suspects, that Saren will ever come to telling him that he loves him. 

But that, too, is alright. He knows. Has known for a long time. The words do not mean nearly so much as the deed, and Saren allowing him this luxury is all the proof he will ever need that Saren loves him. 

__

(Saren turns his back to no one; he turns his throat only to Nihlus.)

And that is enough.

His hands accidentally move a bit too fast, too excited; he nicks Saren's waist with his talons and Saren bristles. Those moon-bright eyes open – Saren never stays blind, not when he has a choice – and focus, immediately, on him. 

“What are you doing?” Saren asks, sub-tones both puzzled and irritated. Somehow, he always knows when Nihlus is feeling romantic, even when he's asleep. Saren isn't bothered by the touching – not now, not after so long – but he's never quite figured out why Nihlus does it, and Nihlus knows that that bothers Saren.

Saren's never comfortable when he doesn't know all the answers.

Somehow, even after all these years, Saren's never gotten comfortable with the obvious idea that Nihlus simply likes what he sees. 

_(Someday, when they are retired, Nihlus will pray over every segment of Saren's skin, will worship him until Saren, too, realizes that he is as beautiful in the sun as he is in the darkness.)_

“Nothing,” Nihlus says, curling his body into his rightful place at Saren's side. He knows Saren well enough to know that he has to play to his moods; getting love-sick at any time is liable to make Saren throw his pillow at him, let alone during the middle of the night. “Just going to bed.”

“Good.” Saren yawns. “You should not stay up so late, Nihlus.” It is enough, Nihlus thinks, that Saren curls a long silver arm across his back, his too-long nails brushing against Nihlus' back. He is as much Saren's as Saren is his, and he'll gladly let Saren's talons mark him.

“'Sorry.” Nihlus snuggles his head into Saren's throat, and feels Saren's arm squeeze tight around him once before settling into the groove of his waist, the fingers pricking ever-so-slightly at his skin. “Goodnight, Saren.”

“Goodnight.” Saren closes his eyes, and Nihlus closes his and inhales the familiar scent of eezo, gun-oil, and metal; Saren.

Saren's breathing changes, heavy and sweet, and Nihlus vows that if Saren cannot love himself, Nihlus will do enough for both of them.

Saren is beautiful by his standards, and that is enough.


End file.
